Ann Christine TabakaNight sounds amble away with starlight
at their heels. Seeking out the yawn of
morning’s sleepy outstretched arms.
Hours, four and twenty, play tag
amongst themselves. A game
the moon knows all too well.
Dreams come to rest on shoulders
white as milk, until the sunlight beckons,
with eyes the color of sapphires.
The story is perpetual beyond the span
of time. Eternally chasing its own tail
through the universe in pursuit
of a brilliant golden sun.
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